


Hand

by leogrl19



Series: Seduction in Skyhold [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Look I wrote a thing!, Oh! hullo hand!, When the Inquizzy's away the Josie will play, but wait there's more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3, IMAAAAAAGINAAAAATION (Or: 'Minutes Away Without You')</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disdainfulAvenger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfulAvenger/gifts).



> Femslash Feb gift for the lovely dA (disdainfulAvenger), who I consider an OG; she’s been writing Josie/femQuiz since this fandom was a *weeee* thing. And, ‘let me count the ways’ was one of the very first stories I read. TO YOU, DAMMIT. *lifts femslash goblet of rock* KEEP MAKING HERAH, AWESOME.
> 
> Le prompt: 'seeing Brin return to Skyhold after being away for quite a while, and Josephine's enthusiastic response to it'. (So, OF COURSE, I made it SMUTTY) :D

* * *

 

She never did this.

Well. She did do _this_ —but, never so carelessly.

Never so _senselessly_ —

Never,

_So_ …

Josephine gasped — rolled her hips; spread her legs…

_Shuddered_.

Maker.

She. She had _self_ - _control_.

(It was nothing new. It was nothing new. It was nothing new.)

Her entire association with the Inquisitor had been based on a single premise: The woman could not save the world within Skyhold. Time, apart, was necessary — _distance_ — if not utterly _crucial_.

Their… arrangement, did not change this. And, while there were—things she had not accounted for (missing; _aching_ ; **_longing_** …), it was a sacrifice she made readily.

It was her **duty**.

…But.

Three _weeks_ ,

_Three weeks_ —

A groan, pushed into the sheets.

There had been…complications.

_Delays_ …

Assurances of more troubles — more _waiting_. The Inquisitor and her companions, away, for another week, _at least_ …

**_Four_** —

Her eyes screwed shut.

One, and she was perfectly capable. Two, and there was a twinge…

She could _ignore_ it.

It was nothing _new_.

But, _this_ —

A **_month_** ….

She.

could,

**_not_** …

Not when she realized—how quiet—how calm — ( _dull_ ), her time was, whenever the Inquisitor was not around. The elf, a _burst_ of _color_ — a wild streak in an otherwise staid canvas. And, while, once, concerning—now…

Now,

_Maker_ …

Her fingers shift. **_Deeper_** —

She _craved_ it.

_Anticipated_ …

Sat at her desk, drafting correspondence, consolidating budgets; eyeing lists of newly procured benefactors, _hoping (hoping_ ; _hoping_ ) the next moment, would be the one the woman would burst through her door.

_That_ smirk.

She hates( _loves_ ) that smirk….

Deliberate, and knowing, and _fearless_ —

_Oh_ ,

Her toes _curl_ ….

And she would frown— _sigh_ —appear wholly _interrupted_ …All to keep up appearances. (She hates that it’s a Game. That it’s the only way they know.

The only way _she_ knows….)

Mask how pleased she truly _was_.

( _Happy_ )

How much she _wanted_ it.

The **_interruption_**.

_More_ …

She licked her lips;

But, everyone knocks.

The dignitaries; the servants; her colleagues—

So, she creates her _own_ disruption: in the Inquisitor’s quarters. In her bed.

In utter _disarray_. The top of her dress unraveled; skirt flared and wild; stockings sidling down her thighs; a hand, _desperate_ , beneath her smalls,

Moaning— _panting_ —

“ _Brin_ …”

Josephine bit her bottom lip, sucked it, the way the other would— _forceful_ and _sharp_ …

It did not matter that the woman hardly ever used the bed.

(She certainly could not do _this_ in the gardens)

_But_. Left with her own imagination, the belligerent paintings along the walls: of incomprehensible beasts and elves with proud shoulders and all manners of swooping, earthly things,

It was **good**.

It was _enough_.

…With that **_voice_** to guide her…

Slow, deliberate circles along her breast. Harsh strokes; harsh draws. (The elf’s hands were not as soft. And she needed to compensate.)

Brusque. Shameless.

_Entirely_ _unpredictable_ ….

She writhed against the sheets; undid her hair. Because the Inquisitor would _want_ her that way.

And,

_And_ —

A strangled _cry_.

…Almost. It was almost as if she could **_hear_** _her_ ….

“Why are you here?”

Josephine gasped (an icy curtain; a rushing heat), turning to the sound—

A calloused hand clamped over her eyes.

“Inquisi—”

A curt, silencing noise and she frowned—because, honestly, why ask a question if not for an answer—and how _rude_ — “Move your hand.”

_Shivers_. Up and down her spine.

And, she felt her entire body _flush_ …

How long? How long had the other been there?

_Watched_ —

“Move. Your. _Hand_.” tight growls.

Her breath catches,

Her hand moves.

The **_heat_** comes tumbling back, (never _left_ ) pooling, thick and heavy, between her legs.

_Faster_

Because, now, the object of her desire is _with_ her—and, there were _so many_ questions—but, the woman renders them:

each and every _one_

Completely.

Utterly—

**_Irrelevant_**.

Darkness. A pleased croon.

_Maker_ …

she’s—

“What were you thinking of?” It left her _breathless_ , the violent stabs of arousal from that **_voice_** , _alone_ …. “Walk me through it….”

“You,” as if she could not _loose it quickly enough_ , “under your fingers; under your gaze…How,” her voice trembled and shook; she swallowed thickly, “I feel so _helpless_ …”

_Remarkable_ : how embarrassment did not claim her cheeks.

The _words_ far more mortifying than _any_ of her _actions_ ….

She knew how to touch herself, how to be efficient—how to draw it out…But, the other’s _voice_ ,

The Voice snatched it out of her control. Led her to something deeper.

Low and base and **_primal_** …

Without sight—

Without _orientation_

_Hitch,_

_More_ words — slipping; _spilling_ from her tongue:

“That,” another shaky swallow, “when you’re away…” the hand gives her courage, “You think of me…”

A low, needy rumble in the back of the other’s throat.

And that is _all she needs_ —

“I’d wish…” _sighed_ ; slick fingers moved faster, “you’d touch me forever…”

Only like this. Only when they’re like **_this_** — does she feel they’re their most _honest_ ….

“You look close.” Josephine whimpered, “Are you?” Crude nods. “Do you say my name? Bite your lip? Muffle your scream?” Her lashes fluttered against that unyielding hand, “ _Show me_.”

A choked sob,

One last _squeeze_ of her nipple—

And, her thumb _brushed_ the sensitive nub that made her mind flicker and dim…. 

She jolted off the mattress, riding _each glorious tremor_ …making sure to pant her name—another _golden wave_ , sneaking up on her, when the elf snatched her hand away—

Seized her lips,

A broken moan.

Because she’s never been _kissed_ like this—not before her. Like she had to _fight_ against it, swim above it; fly through it — or be completely _consumed_ ….

Brin backed away (she could _see_ her); nipped at her swollen lip.

Still in her armor. Carrying the **weight** of all her experiences:

She looked like a **_conquerer_**.

Her fingers hook against a leather strap. “I want you inside of me…”

Nothing. Nothing compares to her _fingers_.

The look she receives in response — dark; barely restrained—

**_Want_**.

Like the woman _couldn't wait_ … for her.

Her heart trips.

For _her_.

The Inquisitor straddled her, a smooth, liquid motion — and she moaned from the weight—the feel of the other’s body against her own….

It’s never long,

(she’s _grateful_ )

Those _fingers_ part through her, and her body _sighs_.

… ** _Back_** …

_Never leave_ ….

They _arch_ inside her like a reward, the woman tall and silent and _intense_.

_Until_ —

“I think of you…” hooded blue eyes — and her inner walls _clench_ ; Brin flexed her fingers, as if telling her, she **_felt_** it, “Your _tongue_.” She slipped another finger in. “In my tent. On my side.” Her fingers flex again, hitting the spot that made her see _stars_ … “A hand between my thighs…”

“D-do you—” _frustration_. Her tongue clumsy and slow. The haze so **_thick_** … The words—They. _don’t_ — “do…”

A smirk. Those eyes…

_Maker_.

She _loses_ _her_ _mind_ ….

“Do I come?” Josephine gasped; nodded desperately. Because— _yes_ —that’s what she wants. That’s what she _needs_. “ _Hard_.” Her body convulsed; the elf leaned forward. “You. Make me come so hard, Jo…”

And, it’s too much: the slow, throaty _hum_ at her ear;

Her **_intensity_** —

She _overflows_ ….

when,

When she returns…(body heavy and _real_ — that smirk still above her) she pulls her down—uncaring—

_Clings_ ….

And, it’s

_terrifying_.

She’s never _felt_ it—

This. All-encompassing **_need_** ….

“Missed you…” it, almost _painful_ , having her back, all at once—the full gravity of her **_ache_** coming to bear—and, she knows _it_ could be too much (she knows; she knows), but her heart is _full_ …

Needs to say _something_.

She looked to the other woman, _hoping_. Eyes saying the words she could not:

it could be _more_ ,

you could _have_ more—

You could have _me_.

_Just_ ** _ask_** ….

But, the woman never does.

The Inquisitor stayed, however. In her bed. In her _arms_ — there no movement; no _push_ to get away.

And, that was something—

That was _something_.

So, Josephine uses her imagination. Thinks the woman clutches her harder; pulls her tighter;

Holds her _so_ ….

And, 

And.

Contents herself with that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ALLEGRA CLARK, JUST--JOSIE VOICE--V-DAY... *short circuits*
> 
> LISTEN TO THAT VIDEO, READ THIS FIC AND REALIZE IT'S CANON.


End file.
